


Apolline's Tale

by TwoForATable (AliSimAlice)



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grandfather Malcolm, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliSimAlice/pseuds/TwoForATable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young orphan against all odds crosses the country of England in search of a home and a grandfather she has never met before. Somehow she is lead to Grandage Place and that just may be where she belongs. Meanwhile, Vanessa looks back into hers and Mina's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Apolline ran through the streets not really caring if the puddles she ended up stepping in soaked her last good pair of shoes. She swerved from the man pulling on a cart full of vegetables, who in turn yelled at her. She ran in between the hundreds of passersby, all heads bowed down, eyes and bodies tired. It was four in the morning and those with jobs were headed to the factories. Boys rushed to get in position, fresh newspapers heavy on their slim arms—others sat on a tiny stool and shined the leather shoes of others.

The whores returned home after a busy night and some hopeless drunks slept in the threshold of shops, still yet to open—their wives and starving children at home and at work. She swerved again as a woman wearing a deep scowl threw out of the window the contents of her chamber-pot and she sighed in relief that it hadn't caught on her. The streets were still half-dark but she wasn't so afraid—she couldn't afford to be. She had come to London on a mission—even if no one gave her any credibility. Her biggest fear was that someone would catch her and make her work in a factory or as a maid as well. She was young but something she did not lack was conviction—the words that the mother superior had spat at her at some point, although in a much more reprimanding circumstance.

The cloistered orphanage ran by the Sisters of Charity nuns in Plymouth was paradise next to this city—there at St. Teresa's she had the guarantee of a warm bed and warm plate of porridge. For twelve pounds a year she had a home. As Apolline arrived in front of the large house, she straightened her coat and skirts and tried to smooth down her golden locks. She knocked on the door hoping that someone would be awake—it was just after five still. She couldn't see a single light on through the windows and with every passing second her heart pounded in her chest out of anticipation.

She tried to listen for footsteps to no avail. She waited another full minute and sighed, bowing her head and turning to leave. Perhaps she would be able to find a nice little corner nearby, to shelter in, until tomorrow. Tomorrow perhaps she would be more successful. But sister Margaret had assured her…

Even if she were almost a hundred years old and everyone considered her to be a mad and senile old woman, for some reason, to Apolline, sister Margaret had always been the wisest and most sensible of the wives of Christ who until a few weeks ago had brought her up. Sister Margaret knew her better than anyone—she was there when Apolline first arrived and knew by heart the appearance of the person who had placed her in the custody of the orphanage.

The door suddenly swung open, making a rather loud sound and Apolline slightly jumped in surprise. She looked back and was met with the pale and somber face of perhaps the prettiest lady she'd ever seen.

"This is the Murray house, isn't it miss?" She asked, slightly disconcerted by the steely-blue gaze of the woman head to toe in black. The woman nodded, her eyes furrowed in confusion. Had it not been Apolline's shyness, perhaps she would have spared them both the time and told her already the reason why she was even here.

"Yes, it is. Are you in trouble?" Apolline shrugged and sighed heavily.

"I came here all the way from Plymouth to meet my grandfather." The woman's eyes widened disbelievingly. "Sister Margaret told me he lived here."

"Who is your grandfather?" Apolline desperately wished to roll her eyes but decided it would be rude. There was a slim chance they would allow her to stay here—imagine if she were to be rude?

"Sir Malcolm Murray. My mum was his daughter, I think—they told me she died." And then she remembered and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from her coat pocket. "I can't read very well. Can you?" She handed the paper to the woman who immediately unfolded it and and silently read.

"Teresa Apolline Murray, daughter of Mina Murray. But how is this possible?"

"It's just Apolline—all the girls went by Teresa, because of the orphanage name. How it's possible I don't know. If my grandfather has so much money, why would he leave me with the nuns?" The lady frowned.

"I never knew that Mina had a child. There was a time where I would've been the first to know." Apolline frowned. Could it be that the lady didn't believe her?

"You're not his daughter too?"

"I'm Vanessa Ives—I live here with Sir Malcolm—and Mina and I were once the best of friends… But I'm afraid he's not here at the present Apolline. He's in Africa, miles and miles away."

"Will he return?" Vanessa paused for a moment and looked into Apolline's eyes. She seemed a lot more approachable now.

"I honestly hope so. Would you like to come inside?" Apolline hesitated for a moment. Without a word, the woman took her by the hand—which came as a surprise—and took her inside. "Your shoes are wet—take them off or you'll catch a cold. I'll bring you some tea and bread, would you like that?" Apolline nodded earnestly and sat in one of the chairs of the foyer.

She looked around the house. It was very large, such as the orphanage had been, but everywhere she looked was dark wood—none of the froufrou velvet and taffetas of the wealthy houses she would occasionally visit. It was rather silly that the wealthy women thought that organizing tea parties for orphaned little girls was charitable. It would've been a lot more helpful if they had donated for the roof to be re-done, since there were so many leaks and in spring pigeons and other birds would fill their attic with nests, feathers and filth. It would've been more useful if they could get them all new cots and new clothing once a while—perhaps a book or two and shoes. Shoes were very useful. At the orphanage shoes were passed down until they were completely worn and no longer had heals.

Apolline absolutely loathed those tea parties.

A few minutes later the woman, Ms. Vanessa Ives, arrived again, carrying a tray with tea, bread and apple jam.

"Follow me please, Apolline." The girl did as told and followed her into the next room, a large parlor with a wide leather sofa in the middle, a lit fireplace and shelves full of books and maps. Apolline had never seen so many books at just one place. She noticed how Ms. Ives smiled, knowing very well that Apolline was astonished by the contents of the room.

"How old are you, Apolline?"

"I'll be eight in February. That's why my name is Apolline, the feast day of the saint."

"And you came to London all on your own, from Plymouth?" Ms. Ives handed her a cup of tea with milk, which Apolline blowed and sipped eagerly. She hadn't eaten in days.

"Yes. I had to sneak inside a few carts and carriages, but I mostly walked. I tried to come by train, but then I wouldn't have enough for food. They tried to put me in a factory but I was able to run away. I don't ever want to work in one of those. Sister Margaret says that factories are what turn people mad." Vanessa nodded.

"You must be very brave then, to come all by yourself from so far. Listen, Apolline, I don't know if I can believe that you are Mina's daughter—I certainly never heard of you before—but I'll allow you to stay here for a while, at least until Sir Malcolm arrives. Hopefully in two weeks. Something tells me you are a brave and clever little girl and you are trustworthy. Can I trust you to stay here, Apolline?" Apolline nodded and smiled.

"I promise I won't bother you or make noise. You won't even know I'm here. And if you want, I could help you around the house…" Vanessa interrupted the little girl's ranting and signaled for her to be silent.

"Apolline, I wouldn't have invited you to stay if I didn't want to see or hear you. The cleanliness of the house I can keep on my own. To be completely honest, I just want to not be alone. Do you like the jam?" Vanessa asked with a smile.

"It tastes very nice." Apolline's face was smeared with it and she blushed profusely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the small chapter, but it's essential for what comes next in the story. Enjoy!

Apolline awoke with the sun in the large bed Ms. Ives had prepared for her. The heat of it softly caressed her cheeks and she was glad the rain had ceased. Yesterday Ms. Ives had insisted on them finding her new clothing and shoes—and a book which they had begun to read together last night.

Ms. Ives was very fond of books and when at three o'clock she paused from her housekeeping or whatever important thing she was doing (breakfast and then a nice warm meal of boeuf bourguignon already eaten), she would sit with Apolline in the parlor and they would read together Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The book was exciting and had poetry in it, as well as some illustrations Apolline thought to be beautiful. At first the golden-haired girl had been hesitant to read the story—mainly because it reminded her of another Alice, a secret one whom she left behind.

The girl slipped out of her ever-soft covers and bed and still in her thick wool socks, marched down the stairs towards the main floor of the house. Ms. Ives was already in the kitchen, her head bowed down, brows furrowed and a typical frown of concentration on her face. She was staring down a large and heavy recipe book.

"I am at a total loss here…" Apolline walked over and sat next to her on the wooden stool.

"Why do you want to eat something so fancy?" She could tell Ms. Ives had smiled—even if just a little. Apolline hadn't known her for long—about eight days—but she already knew that Ms. Ives normally didn't smile much and was very good at hiding her expressions and feelings.

But that did not mean she wasn't kind and she didn't run her feather-soft hands in Apolline's golden locks of hair. It simply meant she carried great anguish inside… She was just as Sister Margaret had been.

"It's not fancy, Apolline. I was just hoping to eat something different." The girl shrugged and nodded, taking liberty in leafing through the heavy tome.

"Ms. Ives—couldn't we just eat porridge today, with bread?" The woman's brow raised and blue eyes suddenly met hazel-brown. "I miss it."

"Is that what you would eat at the orphanage, for breakfast?" Apolline.

"But I like it sweetened with honey. What did you eat when you were my age?" Vanessa pondered for a moment, trying to remember.

"I rather enjoyed warm milk with cinnamon—I can't stand the scent of it all on it's own. And yesterday's dessert."

"Your mother let you eat dessert for breakfast?" Apolline's eyes were wide in marveled outrage; the woman couldn't help but let out a raspy chuckle.

"No, she did not, but I'd eat it anyway. I had Mrs. Turner, our cook, to cover for me. My mother usually ate breakfast alone in her bedroom."

"Hmm, well I'd love some porridge."

…

Vanessa Ives sat in the privacy of her bedroom, a recently opened letter in her hands. It had been from Sir Malcolm, now stationed in Morocco—he was on his way home. She sighed and put the piece of paper away in the drawer of her desk—where another letter she deeply tried to avoid also was. Her heart ached, day and night and sometimes her entire body hurt with it.

She fixed the pins in her hair, preventing her locks from fall over her face. The idea of being all alone in this dreadful house again plagued her thoughts. Vanessa hoped with all her heart that Sir Malcolm would at least give the child next door a chance.

And then there were other, equally grave questions that inundated her: why had he hidden from her all these years the fact that her Mina had born a child? And how could he be so heartless as to throw his granddaughter—his own flesh and blood into an orphanage? How had she not seen any of this in her cards?

And Apolline was so much like Mina…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are essential for the words to keep flowing! Just saying...


	3. Chapter 3

Death is one of those things that punch you in the gut and render you bitter. The bitterness was all he could feel—and the metallic taste of it as well—in his mouth, as he left his only true friend behind, his insides aching for it not to be true. For him not to be completely gone—cold and hard as stone—burned to ashes and buried under the shadows of an enormous baobab tree.

Days passed and he would watch as the sun set and rose, no longer finding it as once before, the most beautiful and grandiose of things. He was a man, he did admire beauty—he sought it just as all others.

He could count the true beauties of this world on his fingers—the large and bright red sun of Africa, the smile of his daughter Mina, the bright green vegetation along the banks of the Nile—the owl-like blue eyes of a once lover, the painting of snowy mountains in his childhood bedroom. Other things he couldn’t completely name or describe.

And beautiful things weren’t only those that one could see—some beauties are invisible, abstract, exist only in the realm of feelings. For instance, he had married his wife Gladys, for the beauty of her singing voice—she, an exquisite mezzo-soprano. There were beauties such as scents, like the earthy and raw smell of wet soil after it rained in the countryside. There were sentimental beauties such as his companionship with Sembene had been. But beauties could also be things brutal, seemingly awful, violent, such as his ward, Vanessa Ives and the very much doomed, Mrs. Poole.

…

Sir Malcolm arrived in Morocco. He would stay here for two days before sailing back to England through the strait of Gibraltar. Already as he arrived at the home of Ahmed, a gentleman who along with his family, many times through the years had offered him a roof and a comfortable room in his house near the docks—already he caught sight of the man’s son, a barefoot and scrawny little thing, the dark-skin of his arms and shoulders glowing with the sunlight, waving exasperatedly for him.

“What is it boy?” Malcolm was tired and impatient—the hunger and the heat also did nothing to appease him.

“A letter for you, sir, it is from London.” Malcolm frowned and took the battered piece of parchment from him and followed him inside the house.

Malcolm was guided by Ahmed to sit in their parlor and allow his feet to be washed by the woman-servant, the one who never really looked one in the eyes. She carefully and with firm hands, rinsed his aching and callused feet, dried them with a clean towel and then masterfully went about massaging them with an oil of a scent so heady and beguiling—that momentarily it seemed to wash all of his troubles away.

“That should be enough, Noor—you are needed in your Madame’s chamber.” The servant bowed her head and gathered her things from the floor, bowing again, always submissively to Malcolm and her master.

Noor. He now knew her name, after all these years. She was mesmerizing beauty and as always, his eyes locked onto her form. If only she would look at him too…

“Sir Malcolm—you must be tired.” Ahmed took a seat on the cushioned across from him. Another servant walked in carrying a silver tray with their cups of tea. “But before I can offer you a room to rest in, I must urge you under the explicit requests of your ward in London, to read that letter in your hands and prepare to embark home tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“You wrote my letter?” Ahmed shook his head.

“She wrote me separately—in Arabic and in French, for as she put it, to be safe that you would receive the message and not try to avoid the problem at hands.”

“What bloody problem, Ahmed?”

“Read the letter.”

…

Vanessa stood at the front of Grandage Place, it was half-past three in the morning. Her heart beat faster in her chest as she saw the dark carriage approaching. Vanessa was about to burst in joy at seeing him once again, just as she would as a young girl. But as her thoughts reverted to the little girl asleep in what was once Mr. Chandler’s bedroom upstairs—she was suddenly overcome by a great feeling of rage and indignation. He owed her some truths, but most of all, if this story were all true—that Apolline was her beloved Mina’s daughter, then he would owe the girl a whole lot more.

She saw as the coachman opened the doors of the carriage and out came Malcolm in his dark suite, wearing his travelling hat. What Vanessa Ives didn’t expect, however, was him helping a hooded woman out of it.

Vanessa’s hands trembled and for once she knew not what to think of the situation.

The coachman carried the luggage to the front steps of the home, excusing himself from Vanessa and she stood there, motionless, a deep frown on her face and arms crossed against her chest.

“Vanessa, my darling—how are you? I’ve missed you!” He said warmly, as he would when she was a child. As he tried to pull her into his arms, in a fatherly hug, she shrugged away from his grasp. “Vanessa—please…” Despite not wanting to, Vanessa knew that his tone of voice was of sincere desperation. He did not desire her to be cross with him—he didn’t want to have a fight or for them to hurt each other. Not now.

“You betrayed my trust once again. I honestly do not know why I keep forgiving and letting you into my life. What is all this of Mina having had a child—a child thrown in to an orphanage, into poverty and a loveless and hopeless life? And who is this woman you’ve brought with you? Another whore to deter you from me, to make you doubt and no longer want me?”

“Vanessa, this is Noor. She was the servant of my good friend Ahmed in Morocco. I have brought her to serve our house and take Sembene’s place.”

“And now even poor Sembene you replace. What are we all but pawns in your little game of life?” She stared at him in contempt and turned her back on him, about to head up the stairs and into her room. “Breakfast shall be served at eight. I hope you are prepared to explain all of this to me and I wonder how you will be able to explain all this to her.”

Malcolm just stared at her, he himself becoming angry at the way she spoke and undermined him before his servant. The following day would most definitely be a difficult one. He looked at Noor—he could never tell what she was feeling, what thoughts went through her mind behind those large and beautiful blackberry eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

The bedroom assigned to her was the largest she'd ever had in her life, although the most colorless. This house was colorless and cold... As she wandered about the rest of the night until the sun was up and she could hear noise from the kitchen—she memorized each room, each object, each little corner. 

 

The house was cold and her being barefoot, Noor hoped she wouldn't catch a cold. She had left her mother behind—her sisters, also servants, her nieces and nephews all loud and rambuctuous chidlren, who nevertheless brought joy to their humble home in the far end of master Ahmed's three story, wealthy residence.

 

She would probably never again be able to visit the graves of her father and her husbands. All of them had died and none of them had been able to bare her a child. Because of this, with the years and despite her famed beauty in the village, no man wanted near her... Unless for those sinful things. Only once in her life had Noor allowed a man who wasn't her spouse into her bed—and the experience and simple thought of it were painful enough for her to have decided that no longer in her life would she lay with a man.

 

And she knew that her new master wanted to lay with her. She could tell by his eyes, by the way he would stand too close to her—so close that it was improper. She knew because of the way he treated her with patience and kindness—and spoke to her in perfect Arabic instead of forcing upon her his native tongue. Most men can be sweet, gentle, gallant when they want something—and after their desires are satiated, they simply leave you to rot.

 

They say women are creatures of sin, but Noor has yet in her almost thirty-seven years, to meet a woman more cruel, cold and pecaminous than men. She was familiar with prostitutes, women of no faith, women who hurt and killed. Most often than not—these horrible actions were just the consequences of the evil brought upon by men.

 

She looked at her reflection in the mirror of her bedroom. Noor had never before owned a mirror. She didn't like it at all, being stared at by herself. The reflection of her body was the reminder of all of the terror she had endured, before beginning to work at the home of master Ahmed. The life of suffering in her village, she the object of fights, murders and hate. The life of guilt because beauty had taken away each of her husbands.

 

She had been cursed with beauty and because her beauty had caused so many horrors, Allah had put upon her the curse of not being able to have any children. And though in the beginning it had been hard to accept—she needed to bare fruit—Noor had grown accustomed to solitude and deep down thanked Allah for not allowing her to birth another cursed one.

 

She dressed in her blue tunic and matching linen trousers, her silk slippers and put on the equally blue veil. Outside of this cold, monochromatic bedroom was a battlefield and Noor would be stupid not to appear.

 

…

 

Vanessa sighed as she tried to straighten out the collar of Apolline's lace white dress. She'd personally combed the girls golden hair today and tied it on the back with a satin pearl-colored ribbon.

 

“He's here isn't he? I heard different footsteps on the hall...” Apolline asked, eyes worried and nervous as Vanessa's hands worked on the buttons of her pristine dress. Apolline ached for the touches, the caresses. They were few, but she looked forward to them, never had Apolline felt a caring hand—not even from sister Margaret.

 

“Sir Malcolm arrived before sunrise and brought us a surprise, a new servant... All the way from Morocco. I know I heard her footsteps all night... I could barely sleep.”

 

“You don't like her?”

 

“I—no. It's not that. How can I dislike someone I am not familiar with? It's just like saying you don't like chocolate, when you've never tasted it. What I dislike is what she represents...”

 

“I've never tasted chocolate, Ms. Ives. Not ever.” Vanessa eyed her and although Apolline knew she was unhappy, couldn't help but smile.

 

“Then I shall take you out for some sooner or later, Apolline. Breakfast is set, are you ready?”

 

“To meet my grandfather? I'm not so sure, miss. It's scary you know? He may not like me at all, he may send me back to the orphanage or worse, to the streets. I don't really know if he's my grandfather, it's just what the paper says. And it's not like I would remember him—I was a baby. Babies know nothing.”

 

“His granddaughter or not Apolline, I don't think I would ever allow for such things to happen to you. After all, we are friends are we not?” The young girl locked eyes with the dark-haired beauty and smiled brightly.

 

“I suppose so, Ms. Ives.”

 

…

Sir Malcolm paced inside his study. It was half-past eight and he hadn't the heart to call after Vanessa—in fact, he was dreading the row that was to come. So when Malcolm heard the door open—not having anticipated so sudden an arrival—although by now he should be used to not hearing Vanessa's feather like steps—he was met by his ward, wearing a placid expression, blue eyes piercing into his.

“Vanessa--”

 

“Apolline, come inside to meet Sir Malcolm Murray.” He heard her command and at the very moment a young girl wearing white—pretty golden hair held back and warm brown eyes, it was as if seeing his daughter alive and young once again. “She arrived carrying this birth certificate that had been kept with one of the nuns at her orphanage.” Vanessa handed him the aged document.

 

Malcolm unfolded it and read, although it wasn't needed, he knew for sure that it was true.

 

“But where is your sister?” Apolline's eyes went wide and she was met with Vanessa's questioning gaze.

 

“She was too heavy for me to carry—and there was a family of Americans wanting to adopt her anyway. 'Cause Alice is young and pretty.” Sir Malcolm frowned deeply.

 

“A sister? You have a sister, Apolline?” The girl nodded, she didn't want Ms. Ives to be cross with her because she hadn't said anything before. “Why on earth did you not tell me? I could have had hired a coach to bring her here!”

 

“Because it's my job to look out for her!” Apolline shouted, letting out a sob. “How was I to know that it's all true, that there would be a nice home with books and new shoes? Alice was going to have her own family anyway—she wouldn't even remember me! It's not fair!” By now Apolline was crying hopelessly and Vanessa was stunned.

 

“I told the nuns to look after the both of you Apolline, because your mother made a terrible mistake. She had children that were not her husband's and that is a shameful thing for any woman, but especially for a woman of her class and education. She was married to a one Jonathan Harker, but sought love elsewhere, with a man or a beast that no one knows. You were both supposed to have gone to a good family...”

 

“But they did not and now look at this mess!” Vanessa said with that passive-agressive, deep and husky tone of hers. He could tell very well that she too was shocked and deeply upset by the news. “I don't care how you will do it, but you will go out and bring Apolline's sister to this house—it's what Mina would have wanted. Sisters need to be together.”

 

“I shall send for her right away.” Sir Malcolm kneeled down, although at his age it was painful and uncomfortable—but he wanted to be at his granddaughter's level. “So how was it you got here all the way from Plymouth?”

Apolline stared into his face, seeing not the hateful and angry eyes she had imagined, but blue-gray eyes gentle and repenant.

 

“It's a long story...”

 

“Oh but please, Apolline, tell me your tale.”


End file.
